


Turmoil

by thefanficawakens



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 03:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6222685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefanficawakens/pseuds/thefanficawakens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young and talented scientist is ripped from her cushy life on her home planet to be used as a tool to the advantage of the First Order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's political espionage afoot - not that our heroine notices.

It took all you had not to scream out load as a fourth pile of papers toppled off the mahogany desk and scattered in all directions like scared rabbits, burrowing themselves in the layers of sheets already on the floor. The office in which you stood would have been impressive if not for the floor being drowned with thirty years’ worth of paperwork,  most of which had intimidating stamps of ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ or ‘RESTRICTED’ across the top in red ink. For possibly the tenth time that day, an exasperated voice in your head questioned why the previous Scientific Director of the prestigious Andorreia Scientific Research Facility hadn’t taken the initiative to save some time and digitise everything, although he was so old that perhaps rearranging the floor-to-ceiling shelves of papers that flanked two out of the four walls would have sapped the last of his life away. You giggled a little as you stooped to collect the sheets that had fallen to the plush carpet, imagining the brilliant yet wizened Professor Maxwell in the same position you were now. The very thought of the poor man witnessing the mess you made of his paperwork would have no doubt sent him into a fit.

As you turned to look at all the other files you still had to sort on the shelves, you thanked the suns that the back wall was free from shelving and that windows took up the rest of the wall space. The papers not stored in here could be easily deflected onto an intern or secretary who _wouldn’t_ need First-Level clearance to even know of the existence of some of this stuff.

The large, floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto the sprawling compound of the facility gave you an idyllic view of the first and second suns both showing high noon, casting brilliant rays into the back of the room. _Your_ facility, you had to remind yourself. You, the young physicist who only recently gained a PhD, had somehow secured the position of head of the most powerful scientific research facility on Andorreia, possibly the galaxy. How? Even you didn’t quite know, let alone the thousands who had expressed confusion and concern in the Senate at how someone so young and inexperienced could run such a huge operation. It would have been a surprise had you secured a position above an unpaid intern. But here you were, standing in a huge, cluttered office, a silver director’s badge pinned to the front pocket of your lab coat. It was deeply perplexing. Your focus fell away from the starkly minimalist furniture and modern decorations to the white walls, your mind using the lack of visual stimulation to slip into your memories.

About halfway through working towards your PhD, you had met the brilliant and charismatic Professor Maxwell, globally famed for his work in neurology and the mysterious ‘Force’, at the annual Senator’s ball. It was slightly ambiguous as to how you even managed to get on the guest list in the first place, but you suspected it was something to do with how high-profile your parents had been in the business world. You didn’t really expect him to pay much attention to you, seeing as you were essentially the biggest nobody at the event full of diplomats, politicians and powerful public figures; however, being the only other scientist at the event you had managed to strike up a brief conversation. And that was it – you had talked for about an hour, parting ways with a formal handshake, and you fully expected never to hear from him again. And you didn’t – at least, not until about four months later.

Minding your own business in the college cafeteria, you were tapped on the shoulder and turned to see a Senate Messenger boy in full regalia, holding out a waxy letter while the rest of the faculty gawked. You had read with growing disbelief that Professor Maxwell had sadly passed from natural causes, but his will insisted that _you_ take over his position on three conditions: one, that you were to be involved directly with research at the company; two, that you would continue his work on this ‘Force’ and three, that you were to be appointed Scientific Director of the Andorreia Scientific Research Facility (ASRF) with _immediate effect._ You had almost fainted right there and then.

“Ow!” a sharp pain in the pad of your thumb brought you sharply back to the present from your pondering. Looking down, you realised with exasperation that you had been fiddling with your badge and the pin had come loose, sticking into your thumb. You decided to see your lack of concentration as divine intervention that you needed a break. Sucking on the pinprick to stem the bleeding, you walked briskly to the door of the office and opened it with the other hand, hoping your acquaintances would still be at the cafeteria waiting for you. Outside the office, the secretary looked up from his data pad as you came through the waiting area.

“Ma’am, you’ve had five missed calls from officials. Can I give any of them times to call back?” the news came not as a surprise but nonetheless as a drag; you groaned aloud at the thought of returning yet more congratulatory calls from smarmy people wanting to get on the good side of the Senate. Courtesy could only extend so far.

“No, Derry, it’s OK… I’ll do it myself this evening.” At this point the need for a pizza or something was calling to you with much more pull than any trumped-up CEO. “I appreciate it though. See you later…” you made to leave the office, Derry calling hurriedly after you “There’s blood on your lab coat.”

Another groan escaped you in the corridor as you see that he’s right. There was a few splatters of blood from your thumb down the front of your coat: you hair was also unkempt and there are almost certainly dark circles under your eyes. _Brilliant. I look so professional._ You had hoped to make an impression of yourself as a mature expert, demure and qualified, in order to quell rumours among the faculty that you were a rookie appointed to the job only because you had been friends with Professor Maxwell. A lot of senior staff members held considerable resentment that they hadn’t taken the mantle. In a rather desperate attempt to cover your dishevelment and make a good impression on anyone you might pass, you held yourself in a rigid position and tucked your hands behind your back in what you hoped was an impressive way. At least this way no more blood could leak onto the white cotton of your lab coat.

The cafeteria was in a different building to your office, but to avoid stepping out into the cold you took one of the passageways in the labyrinth of supply tunnels under the compound. The pace chosen was fast enough so you hopefully wouldn’t miss your friends, but slow enough that you wouldn’t embarrass yourself further by getting a stitch. With your lab coat billowing out behind you and giving polite nods to those you passed, you almost felt like a proper, organised Scientific Director who most certainly didn’t have the appearance of a confused owl. No, sir.

Thankfully, the cafeteria was mostly empty as you approached. Your eyes scanned the long, metallic tables and benches until they came upon a small group of people sitting in the corner; the flash of bright blonde hair allowed you to recognise your best friend. The disapproving looks emanating from senior staff members went unnoticed as you quickened your pace, expression falling into a smile.

“Heeeeyyy, how’s the big boss doing today?” Sam, a young, wiry man in his late 20s motioned you to sit next to him, characteristic grin ever-plastered on his face. A brand new recruit to the finance department, Sam could be most easily recognised by his glowingly blonde hair, immaculate suit and expansive sense of humour. On your first day, he had helped you find your way around the sprawling compound – but not before doubling over with laughter after you got spectacularly lost and accidentally walked directly into his own office.

“Good afternoon.” Maria, stoic as ever, barely looked up from her data pad screen as you sat next to her, no doubt scrolling through more pictures of dissected mammals. You always joked that had she not become a biologist, she would’ve made a great mortician. You watched her look up, jerky as ever, allow her tanned face to soften briefly and then snap back to drinking her coffee, loosening some of her ramrod-straight, dark hair from its tight ponytail. You had shared a dorm in university, and her brutal efficiency and intelligence had secured her a place in ASRF (you felt rather guilty that you had managed to get to the top of the ladder by no means of your own whereas she had to struggle through a rigorous interview process, but she didn’t seem to mind).

Glad to be among familiar faces, you fell gladly into step with the light-hearted conversation among your friend group and began your lunch. The meaningless chatter about the toxicity levels of the cafeteria food or the likelihood that Bill from accounting would finally make a move on Ela from Materials was a welcome break from the endless formalities with politicians and the woes of taking over a facility. At some point you stopped following the thread of conversation, and where brought sharply down to earth by a nudge from Sam. He motioned to the nearest TV screen, playing the news, with his fork.

“Look, they’re doing a segment on those people… the First Order.” You look over with a little more interest. In recent weeks, a huge army calling themselves the ‘First Order’ had flown their huge, moon-based base into your orbit, demanding co-operation from your entire planet. The senate had been up in arms, of course, and negotiations had been taking place over the past five days. It wasn’t like Andorreia hadn’t co-operated with organisations like this one successfully before (see: the whole Death Star fiasco a few decades ago), but still something about it made you uneasy. Call it a hunch, a premonition, but you had a feeling that these people weren’t really the negotiating type. They seemed… volatile, and seeing as your planet was in no way equipped to fight them off, the whole thing was unsettling. You tuned into the report. “…tumultuous times ahead… the group calling themselves the First Order are evidently demanding nothing but obedience and support… promise to power down the large weapon if demands are met… Senate may have to sacrifice good relations with the Republic…”

It took you a moment to realise that Sam was looking at you with an expectant expression,

“What?”

He motioned to the images on the screen, now showing a sweeping shot of the Senate building, then took another bite of his salad with eyebrows raised.

“I hear that one of the big bosses, he can use the Force.” Sam looked at you again, wiggling his eyebrows, only half-serious. With a sigh and a roll of your eyes, you shoot him a grin. He knew about your research into the mysterious energy had hit a dead end, and gently tried to help out in his own way, which of course manifested in feeding you facility gossip he picked up in the finances break room. It was mostly completely fictitious, but you appreciated the effort.

“It’s unlikely I’ll ever meet anyone to do with the ‘First Order’, Sam.” But his words worried you more. Was it really that unlikely? If the negotiations with the Senate broke down, then a group such as theirs would no doubt overtake every large organisation on the planet for their own gain – ASRF would be first in line to hand over control, technology and scientific findings. Maria glanced over, able as ever to read you like a book. She sent you a reassuring look that said _whatever you’re worried about, it probably won’t happen_ , and the rational part of you was inclined to agree. Fretting about the future was fruitless.

But still, as you left the facility in the evening and stared at the looming eyeball-like structure of the Starkiller Base, the piercing gaze of its red pupil sent shivers down your spine. It seemed so off-key with the peaceful yellow lights and curling greenery of the capital. Your position dawned on you suddenly as you shoved your hands in your coat pockets, the words of the newscaster sticking in your mind: there were tumultuous times ahead. And whatever was to happen to the Senate and your planet in the next few days was now directly tied to _you._


	2. Into The Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All hell breaks loose on Andorreia as the First Order takes control.

Any discomfort you felt over Andorreia’s political situation was pushed aside in the next few days as you were overtaken once again by your work. In the lab, you were proud to be taking strides forward into symmetric theory using the particle accelerator, hopefully proving to your research assistants that you were suited to leading the experiments. The piles of paper on the floor of your office slowly dwindled as you catalogued, sorted and digitised each sensitive document before binning it in your combustion trash bin.

However, your research into the Force was as fruitless as ever, and you couldn’t even hope to start lab work until you had at least a basis of knowledge; most of your afternoon was spent in the facility library or on the digital archives, combing Professor Maxwell’s papers and documents to try and gain a basic understanding. From what you gathered, it was some sort of universal energy that could be manipulated by the mind of a chosen few. What governed who could wield this mysterious power eluded you, and evidently Professor Maxwell, too – there were pages of scribbled notes, equations and diagrams trying to decipher what exactly could control something like this. There was reams of theory and speculation, but hardly any solid lab work (or, dare you say it, evidence) to support any of the proposed hypotheses. Today, you floundered around as usual for the whole afternoon. The bright rays of the first sun dipped below the horizon, leaving only the weak orange glow of the second sun that was soon to follow in its wake. Your neck was aching from sitting in the white office chair for so long, elbows resting on the large wooden desk and head bent over the blue glow of your data pad. Looking over a write up of one of the few practical experiments performed, you noticed a link to a video file, apparently pertaining to the experiment at hand. There were no other files saved like this; overcome with curiosity, you tapped it and bring it up to the forefront of your open tabs. It buffered for a second then flashed up, showing the familiar pure white interior of one of the labs.

A young woman sat uneasily in the middle of the frame, on a plastic chair, with an assortment of objects placed in order of size on the table in front of her. A flat voice cut through the brief silence. “Subject A-A-003, test 5, day 2. Begin.” The woman shifted around a little, evidently taking her cue from the command, and raised her hand to the smallest object. The piece in question, a small locket, sat a few inches from her outstretched palm. The silence returned as her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. What on Andorreia was she trying to do? Surely this video wasn’t just ten minutes of weird gestures and household objects?

A movement drew your eye back to the video. The woman’s expression had become serene, almost expectant. Without warning, in a flash of pixels, the woman was holding the locket in her hand. What? You rewound the video back a few seconds and watch again, this time with more scrutiny. The locket sat innocently on the table under the woman’s fingers, unmoving, until in a sudden jerk it was in her palm. Face furrowed, you skipped forward to the end of the video. The camera angle had been subtly changed to reveal a heavy-set dresser placed next to the table. Now seemingly at ease, the woman drew her arms fluidly up into the air, lifting the dresser above her head.

In shock, you dropped the data pad and whirled around in your seat, hands flying up to hold your head. Could this be the illusive telekinetic property of the Force that Professor Maxwell had so desperately attempted to convince you of its existence? With your mind swimming with questions, you sat back, only now fully realising why one of the conditions of your employment had been to carry on researching this power. The pure, untapped potential it held sent a thrill down your spine, enticing to both the curious scientist and winding imagination housed within you. It was incredible.

Giddily, you stood and began to pace the expansive office, barely noticing the second sun setting and lights flicking on around the glassy architecture of the facility. You reached out your hand almost in spite of yourself, almost knowing that this was absolutely impossible, but the pixelated image of the woman lifting the dresser enticed you to think on the contrary. Feeling rather foolish, you concentrated on a pen sat on the edge of the fourth row of shelving. In imitation of the woman, you placed your hands out and willed the pen to slide across the few centimetres between it and the edge.

Nothing happened, of course, and you laughed at yourself softly. Almost as if you were playing make-believe, behaving like an overly-imaginative child. Your data pad cut across your laughter with a shrill tone, signalling the end of your day, and you began to hastily file the papers you had been looking at. The mystery, you decided, was intriguing, but would have to wait until clearance was given to take the papers home for you to unravel it. Shouting a casual goodbye to Derry, you flicked off the lights, gently closed the door and began the brisk walk to the exit, already anticipating the pizza rolls you had waiting for you back home.

Inside the darkened office, the pen twitched, slid forwards slowly and fell gently to the carpet.

You were in a jovial mood when you woke up the next morning. It finally felt like you had some sort of grasp of the Force and its potential (not to mention how incredible it seemed), and you were raring to go and share your findings with your friends. Your head was reeling with thoughts of asking Maria to help you identify areas of brain activity while Force users flung objects about a test chamber, getting Sam involved with calculations – heck, even finding one of those people was palpably fascinating in itself. You became so engrossed with re-reading case notes, pieces finally clicking together, that you almost burnt your bacon to a cinder. Not that you noticed the taste with your head stuck in yet another page of notes.

Genuinely wanting to tidy for once, combed your hair so it fell neatly and framed your face, applied a thin layer of make-up, straightened your shirt and even polished your boots. Not half bad, you thought with a grin, admiring your physique before grabbing your satchel and slinging it over your shoulder. Today, you were sure, was going to be a good day.

You set out at a brisk pace, the morning air in the capital pleasantly fresh with the suns side by side, glowing in the lower half of the horizon. Your mood remained uplifted as you turned onto the Main Street that plunged through the centre of the city. The atmosphere was bracing, happy… wait. Something inside of you told you to slow your pace and look around you. There’s something wrong here. Look for it. Your eyes widened. The usually bustling city centre was missing an oh-so-important component: people. There was nobody. Speeders lay dormant in parking spaces. Cafes were closed and dark. A single commuter emerged from the subway, head bowed, and fled into a nearby apartment block. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant call of an engine speeding away, calling for its brothers and sisters. It was chillingly eerie – no definite signs of destruction, but as if everyone went to sleep and hadn’t woken up.

At this point, both logic and panic decided that the rest of the walk to ASRF was best taken at a sprint. You were not reluctant to oblige.

Hurried footsteps echoing off the buildings, your mind whirled with all sorts of unpleasant possibilities. A sudden infection of a super-virus? Overnight biological weaponry? Radioactive meltdown meaning everyone was confined to their homes? A glance up at the floating eyeball base told you the weapon they had had been neither charged nor fired, seeing as there were no signs of atmospheric disturbance: what was going on?

The formidable entrance to your workplace loomed and you took the steps up to the many revolving doors two at a time; you almost wept with relief to see the droid-manned main reception was still functioning. In a snap decision, your first port of call was to be the cafeteria. It pained you to see that the corridors you sped down were equally as unpopulated as the streets outside. Your heart was in your throat as you rounded the corner, scanning the empty rows of seats for any familiar faces. Or just anyone at all.

A familiar flash of blonde made you whip your head around to see Sam and Maria, sitting worriedly on their own but looking thankfully unharmed. Unable to help yourself, you ran forward as they stood to meet you and pulled them both into a tight-armed hug.

“Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever been more glad to see anyone in my life.” You sighed. You release them and see that their faces are equal parts stricken and relieved to see you. “What’s happening, guys? There wasn’t anyone in the city when I came over, there’s nobody here, where is everyone?” Sam’s face, usually so bright, was contorted into an expression that emulated a homesick puppy. Even the stoic Maria had a crease of worry down her forehead.   
“Oh my, you… really haven’t heard?” Sam looked even worse and motioned for the three of you to sit. “Weren’t you listening to any news stations last night?” You thought back to yesterday with your head stuck in mounds of research and shook your head. Maria took over, the normally smooth voice tainted with a quaver of worry.   
“The First Order and the Senate didn’t exactly… negotiate. Last night there was a bulletin essentially stating that they now control Andorreia, resistance is futile, et cetera…” Maria’s nose wrinkled and you could tell that she was more than a little upset by such a blatant disregard for democracy. Sam spoke again in a low tone.  
“We think they… we think they’ve executed the Senators… There’s been no word from any of them. And all communication channels have been shut until they decide to open them again… Until they’ve ‘integrated their rule’, whatever the hell that means…” you felt a stabbing sensation in the pit of your stomach, realising in horror that your worst suspicion came true. “Everyone’s been too scared to leave the house, they’re probably coming to take over public sectors – oh Suns, that means US-” at this revelation, Sam put his head in his hands and began mumbling to himself quietly. You realised with another pang that more specifically, that means you. There was a roaring sound in your head, heart pounding and breathing laboured. Everything seems to be a dream, unreal – this couldn’t be your reality. Maria’s hand snaked around to give yours a little squeeze. She had made the connection that Sam had not.

The sound of hurried footsteps caused all three of you to turn to see the source; from around the corner, Derry arrived, red in the face from his running. He approached quickly.

“Ma’am, I’ve had a call from the First Order, and they want to meet you.” The roaring inside your head returned full-force, seizing your torso like a crushing fist and causing your hearing to be ruptured with the heavy sound of your panicked heartbeat. Oh Suns. It’s happening.

“A shuttle is going to be here in the facility grounds at 1100 hours… Alone - they didn’t say why or give you a choice, I mean I-I tried-” with a jolt, you saw that Derry was crying softly. It hit you that even being on the phone with such people would have made the quiet, cautiously friendly Derry extremely uncomfortable. Something within you stirs: you have a duty. A duty to be a strong leader to everyone under your employment. To protect Andorreia. Or at least protect Derry. Anyone who had the balls to make your secretary cry made you very angry indeed.

Seized with a sudden rage of confidence, you stood and took Derry by the shoulders.   
“Derry. I’ve got this. Go home to your family.” He nodded, hesitantly, tear stricken face wavering under your sudden intense gaze, but turned and began to stride away with purpose.   
“Thank you.”

Maria motioned to her digital time display.  
“1100 hours means you have 5 minutes.”

“Well, they’re nothing if not efficient bastards.” You begin to march out to the grounds with a newfound purpose. The roar of panic had been overwhelmed by a blazing fire that Derry’s tears had ignited within you. You weren’t ready to negotiate, but you sure were ready to give them a piece of your mind. And maybe a taste of your sensible lab shoes. Whatever came first.

The shuttle roared into view, huge and metallic, an intimidating husk of rivets, panels and fuel. The engine screamed as they come into approach, floor panel sliding down to reveal lines of armour-clad white soldiers, gripping blasters and stood rigid. You said nothing, watching as they filed out in rows, fingers held of the trigger in what you assumed was supposed to be a threatening manner. Oh yeah? I’m not in the mood to be threatened. One steps forward, right to your face, and grabs you by the shoulder, attempting to lead you inside. With a hiss you jerk away, throwing him a glare as you march rigidly towards the shuttle and step inside, staring icily at the masks that covered the soldiers’ faces. With sadistic pleasure you noticed that a few angled their heads to look away.

Sam and Maria watched silently from inside as you turn and give them a resolute salute – both silently hoping that your blaze of passion didn’t get you into trouble. Their concern, your red-tinged mind decided, was appreciated but misplaced. You were going to hold your own.

The door slid shut, encasing you in the black ship, and you took the only available seat on the metal benches that lined the walls with the rest of the soldiers pushed shoulder-to-shoulder. One of the goons turned to look at you, presumably wide-eyed under that creepy helmet, and you fought the urge to flip them off, opting instead to cross your legs and throw them a sarcastic smile. You were precious cargo, after all. You could afford a little indiscretion.

As the shuttle ascended towards the looming shape of the Starkiller base, you stared directly at the pupil and steel yourself for the hours ahead. Whatever these people were going to demand from you, you resolved to do everything in your power to ensure they wouldn’t get it.


	3. A Permanent Position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scientist receives a promotion - of sorts.

Leaving the atmosphere of Andorreia gave a deceptively peaceful, picturesque view of your home planet from the polished row of windows across from you. As it drew away in a languid motion, you were reminded of the pictures dotted across your childhood space books. Almost cloudless, you saw the expanse of Andorreia’s singular ocean across the Northern Hemisphere, broken only by the sprawling disks of ice that formed across the pole. The solid landmass that you had left curled around the rest of the space like a child’s palm on a rubber ball; the centre was preserved as a solid green of forest, but was ringed all around the outside by spots of hazy yellow that was the towns, cities and settlements. Rivers curled from within and opened wide to the ocean like bluish veins; it had never been clearer to you than in that moment as to why your late grandfather had decided to settle here. It was, for want of a better word, beautiful.

It occurred to you, through your musings, that this was your first excursion off of your planet. _Not exactly the way I’d have planned it,_ you thought with irritation, the scent of sweat emanating from the cramped cabin breaching your nostrils and causing you to wrinkle your nose in disgust. Your distaste only increased when you noticed the faded blood spatters across the blackened metal. The delightful gallery of human suffering made you wonder whether anyone in this damned organisation knew of the existence of bleach.

You had been shoved shoulder-to-shoulder between two of the white-clad soldiers, their bent elbows knocking uncomfortably on your upper arms, probably leaving purple marks that would flourish the next day. You briefly considered asking one of them to put down their blaster so you could have at a few inches of arm room, but instinct told you that this was a bad plan. Something inside you warned that your life wasn’t exactly important in the eyes of these people, despite being taken up forcefully by a swarm of armed guards. At least you still had your shoulder bag with you, thankfully left unconfiscated.

In the cockpit, the pilot evidently put his foot down, as you felt the overworked ship groan and shudder beneath your feet. The frayed seatbelt straps managed to dig themselves even more uncomfortably into your torso as you slipped down on the metal bench – you were already a bit short for the straps and the increased velocity certainly didn’t help. A snigger came quietly from under the helmet if the soldier to your left. _Oh, no, don’t help me or anything. Just sit there and laugh._

With speed increased, the looming structure of the Starkiller base presented itself to your view while Andorreia diminished. It was even more peculiar close up: an icy planet with a huge gash hewn down the front, the crackling red aperture even more formidable when you stopped to appreciate its sheer size. Metal melded with rock, clashing uncomfortably, man-made structures cutting into nature like stab wounds. Snow clouds lashed at the unwelcome architecture, clawing desperately at the metallic scabs of technology; judging by the curling tendrils of vapour that twisted around the jutting edges of the steel and rivets, the surface conditions were harsh at best. Basically, it would get really bad reviews on GalacticTripAdvisor.

At the sight of such a structure, the flaming anger that had marched you confidently into the shuttle began to waver, flickering, dying. It suddenly seemed all to real – gone was the haze of disbelief, replaced by an acute awareness of the danger you had gotten yourself into.  The fear which you had reigned back to the smallest crevice of your mind began to slowly assert itself again, manifesting in your thoughts, pushing through layers of consciousness. You were so out of depth that the situation may as well have been drowning you. Here sat a small young woman in a crumpled lab coat, clutching a leather satchel to her chest, being brought before a terrifyingly powerful organisation that had just conquered her planet to apparently have a democratic discussion. The whole thing was faintly ridiculous.

You swallowed, hard. God, you hated politics.

In order to suppress some of your ardent terror, you concentrated on the glowing weapon set like a crackling Jewel into the centre of the base. Your curious researcher’s mind longed to figure out what made it tick. Fusion seemed the easiest solution, yet couldn’t produce that much power unless they had several main sequence stars hidden beneath the surface. Physicist’s instinct told you that they must be harnessing dark matter in some way – combusting it, perhaps? Calm, logical thought helped you find a little control over your situation; your musings only ceased when you were jolted to attention by the docking of the shuttle.

The dock was cavernous, gaping; a huge square hall, tall and open at one end to allow ships inside, revealing a harsh landscape of snowy peaks and mounts. More armoured soldiers moved in groups around the bay, which had corridor-like intrusions set into the high walls to allow access to any of the numerous ships that constantly streamed in and out. The soldiers with whom you had arrived marched you down to one such incursion into the otherwise completely smooth jet black walls, bright ovular panels of lighting set into the walls making you squint in discomfort. The part of your mind that wasn’t soaked in fright scolded the lack of handrails which would certainly have helped lessen the likelihood of falling the hundreds of metres into the depths of the bay.

Most of your little entourage disappeared, marching in formation down some other metallic hallway in this hellish construction; this left only one to grab you by the shoulder and half-drag you in a different direction. This time, their grip was too strong to escape from.

Walls, corners and crossroads blurred together in your memory as you were led down set upon set of identical pathways, twisting and turning deep into the heart of the base. These bland hallways held a certain familiarity, the sterile appearance, sliding doors and layers of security reminding you of your workplace back home. The key difference was, of course, that Andorreia didn’t feel the need to have thousands of armed soldiers warming like ants all over its facilities.

However, as you desperately tried to keep track of the path you had taken alongside this silent soldier (was it left, left, left door, right or left, left, right door, left?) the presence of white armour thinned and was replaced more frequently by black-uniformed men and women who you assumed must be higher in rank, strategic rather than offensive. In passing, you overheard one of these uniformed officers refer to the soldiers as ‘Stromtroopers’; you would have laughed at such an obvious attempt to make them sound intimidating, had it not been working.

All of a sudden you were brought short at a doorway that looked slightly larger than the rest – not noticeably, mind (everything in this place looked the same) but enough to make you assume this housed a highly ranked official. The Stormtrooper knocked, waited a few seconds for the door to be opened then manhandled you inside.

The room was decorated in an equally dark and cold manner to the rest of the ship, but here was an extra layer of comfort. Not extravagance, no, but it was clear whoever worked from here could afford a few extra luxuries that the rest of the base evidently could not. It was noticeably a few degrees warmer inside (shielded from the cold wind that somehow managed to snake its way even into the depths of the maze of corridors) and there was even a grey carpet that muffled your footfalls rather than metal. There was a wide window that gave a more favourable vista of the surface, behind which sat a large desk hewn from a dark material you couldn’t put your finger on. And there, in a tall office chair, sat the man who had dragged you so uncordially from your home planet.

“I’ve brought the woman, Sir.” Came the tinny rumble of your captor.

“Good. You are dismissed.” The Stormtrooper turned sharply and left, closing the door and leaving you to examine the imposing figure.

He stood from the desk, tall and commanding, and you regarded him for a second. Dressed in tailored uniform, pointed shoulders and high boots, wide belt tight around the middle of the military jacket that came right up to cover his neck. The uniform was entirely black, right down to the leather gloves he wore over the hands that moved to clasp firmly behind his back. Only his red hair combed firmly down gave his appearance any hint of colour. His face was young, very pale and rounded with high cheekbones, but his gaze and expression held a heavy severity that seemed to channel the sharp angles of his uniform. A weighted silence fell.

He spoke at length with a cold voice, low and smooth and almost toneless.

“Sit down.”

“No, thanks.” Call it childish, but standing to talk to him made you feel like you were a little more in control, perhaps giving you the slight delusion of being on even footing. You had fought of the fear thus far, and certainly weren’t going to bend now; a cautious confidence was bestowed on your psyche now you weren’t surrounded by hordes of blaster-equipped Stormtroopers. The man’s brow creased slightly: evidently he wasn’t used to having his commands ignored. He walked slowly from around the side of the desk, evidently choosing his words carefully. You decided it was time for some answers of your own.

“Forgive me, but who exactly _are_ you?” involuntarily, a hand rested itself on your hip and you raised an expectant eyebrow. “And, more importantly,” your arms moved to be crossed over your chest, “why exactly did you think it was even remotely acceptable to pick me up so unceremoniously from my post?” Feeling giddy with sudden confidence, all thoughts of self-preservation forgotten, your feet carried you further to face him directly. He was so tall you had to angle your head to look up at his, but you hoped your suitably stern expression would rectify any subversion from being intimidating.

Despite your efforts, this evidently had the opposite of the desired effect – he smirked briefly, unimpressed, then closed even more of the distance between you and fixed you with a cold yet intense stare.

“General Hux. And seeing as I am your superior, I shall expect to be addressed with a little more _respect._ ” There was irritation in his tone now, but his eyes held something that you couldn’t place. You fought the urge to shiver as his breath hit you gently. “May I remind you, Miss (Y/N), that the First Order controls you. We are your Senate. I am your Senator.” His rigid posture seemed to get even taller in your view as he towered over your form, the fear returning to your mind but accompanied by an odd thrill.

“Yeah, well since you _murdered_ our last ones-”

“We have brought order to your chaotic planet!” His voice raised a tone. “I will _not_ stand here and explain our politics to you – a mere scientist -” this last part was said almost to himself as he seemed to come to his senses, stepping back and moving back to stand behind his desk. You released a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. Hux turned, face back to its original cold position, and spoke again.

“We need a team of scientists aboard the Starkiller base to assist with developing our engines and our technology – seeing as I have heard so much about your planet’s _capabilities_ , I as your superior am re-assigning you and a team of scientists of your picking to be installed wherever you are needed. Permanently.” Your mouth went dry. The panic that you had supressed so well for the past few hours returned gleefully, roaring in your hear to trumpet its return. Weak protests bubbled at your lips.

“B-but, my stuff is down there, I’m not – you can’t -” Hux silenced you with a glare, smirk returning, pleased that your argumentative demeanour had been crushed.

“Your things will be brought up this evening, alongside your new team, who you must choose within the hour. Am I clear?”

You could barely hear him over your thudding heartbeat and the thoughts of despair that battered around your head. Against this military beast you had seen, resistance was pointless and submission was inevitable. _You were leaving your home, possibly never to return, life now at the beck and call of the First Order._

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I have sent the base map to your data pad – the quarters marked in red are yours. You are expected for a briefing at 0700 hours tomorrow. Dismissed.” His eyes returned down to his own data pad, so casual after ripping apart your entire life with his words and throwing the shreds in your face.

Without another word, eyes burning, you turned on your heel and fled.


	4. Out Of The Frying Pan, Into The Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast provides our young protagonist with both the call to revolution and the means to her downfall.

The next few weeks were an emotional struggle, not least for you but the rest of your scientific team who were given even less information than you were. A small group (at least, small compared to what you were used to) were rounded into a transport shuttle and uncordially left inside what was now your new office, panicked, giving you the difficult task of explaining what was going on. It had been hard to look into their stricken faces, hard to keep your voice from shaking with tumultuous anger and fear, hard to see their faces widen when they learnt they wouldn’t be seeing home for a long time. It had been difficult enough to put down a list of who you wanted to join you on the base, what was essentially a kidnapping, but with much guilt you had penned a mixture of older experts, bright young ones whom you were sure were going to have their futures ruined, and of course Sam and Maria. It was more than you could do to hope they could forgive you for pulling them up here, but as selfish as it was you needed them with you.

Their utter terror as the words ‘permanent position’ had left your mouth was more than enough to make you resolve that you were going to be a strong leader, a backbone for everyone up here on this damned base – at least until the others left and Sam and Maria had pulled you in turn to a silent embrace. Suns, you weren’t sure you could do this. The stoic Maria had even cried, silent, vacant and looking more vulnerable than you had ever seen her. That was not something you ever wanted to witness again.

You were given the displeasure that evening of watching through a film of tears as Andorreia slid past the horizon and out of your view; the moment you felt the base shift into hyperspace you threw yourself down on the small double bed and howled into the pillow. Sleep overtook you in a flurry of salty tears and mucus, having wept yourself into exhaustion, and tempestuous dreams rattled your mind until you awoke feeling like you hadn’t rested at all.

There were at least some bright sides you could focus on: you had one of the most scientifically advanced structures in the galaxy at your disposal, and even the preliminary summaries you had been given about the mysterious epicentre of the moon, the weapon, was downright fascinating.

Sweeping around the base in your lab coat was also highly satisfying, despite the dark uniform with the insignia on the left sleeve being rather tight around the neck. The fact that the Stormtroopers had to address you as ‘Ma’am’ did wonders for your ego, despite the fact that you had no real power over anyone except your team. All of you had been given permission to keep researching into your chosen field of study, provided your primary objective was to benefit the First Order. The labs were brand new, unused and advanced. You had a place to sleep and food to eat. You weren’t dead. You were managing.

So, when you awoke on the thirteenth day of your stay on the Starkiller base, your spirits had been lifted considerably. The high-pitched beeping of your datapad was not as grating as it dragged you from your slumber; the bland minimalist décor did not depress you quite as much as before; the uniform wasn’t quite so constricting and even made you feel a little more assured.

You were supposed to report for duty at seven o’clock sharp – in practice this meant clocking in with an officer before you issued everyone with the obligatory tasks you were given, but nevertheless you were expected to be absolutely precise about timings. The control you had over your team’s timetable was mildly expansive, allowing you to direct them to lab work, theory, meetings and so forth, but all of you had mandatory sessions at points throughout the day. Excursions around base to understand the technology had already begun, and offensive training (the thought of which filled you with dread) was due to begin next week.

In keeping with your strict timetable, you strode into the canteen at 0630 hours and took your place with the other scientists huddled alone around a back table. Sam and Maria were the only two who greeted you vocally (albeit quietly) as you took your designated space across from them, a few others giving nods of acknowledgement but most continuing to eat or partake in hushed conversation. You wondered if some harboured dislike towards you for hauling them up here rather than directing their quiet anguish towards the First Order instead. Unable to help yourself as you began to stomach the bland food designed for efficiency rather than taste, you listened in to one of the muted discussions.

“…why they even needed us? They _indoctrinated_ soldiers and engineers alike from birth. Why not scientists?”

“Maybe they have, but they’re not old enough yet. Oh Suns, what will they do with us if they get in new scientists, who follow each command like dogs as these others do?”

“I think that they must have tried by now, and it didn’t work. Think about it – we used to be employed by the most high-esteemed scientific organisation in this galaxy. No matter how hard you try, you can’t indoctrinate intelligence.”

Sam’s voice cut across your shameless snooping, holding out his datapad with a half smug, half serious expression.

“Guess what I got.” Used to Sam’s antics, you only fixed him with an exasperated glance and a raised eyebrow that read ‘this is no time for guessing games’. In lieu of a vocal answer, he continued. “So, where they have me doing all these calculations for the budget reforms right now, they have a computer terminal that’s meant to only be for the big cheeses. I guessed they’d probably have stuff about what’s happening back home right now on there, but there’s all sorts of crazy security on it. So yesterday I was doing some calculations with Gaussian functions when one those officer guys who watches us work just up and left – I think he went to the loo? And I thought to myself ‘this is a chance you’ll probably never get again’.” His voice changed to become quieter and you leant in with cautious intrigue. Maria’s eyes even appeared from over the top of her book to watch him speak. “So I went over and I – I hacked into it.” Your eyes widened but Sam continued without a pause, triumphant: “It was super easy compared to stuff I’ve done before, and the officer didn’t even suspect a thing. Wiped the memory so clean it was like nobody’d used it in the past hour.”

“Sam! That’s-” you glanced round at the busy canteen nervously and lowered your voice to a whisper- “so dangerous-” Sam silenced you with an uncharacteristically dark look; the rest of the scientists clustered around the table had evidently started listening, and went palpably quieter while leaning in by a fraction.

“Here – I got into the ‘completed mission files’. Andorreia had pretty insubstantial security compared to some of this stuff.” He angled his datapad carefully so you and the others who were straining to see could get a better view without revealing his crime to the rest of the armoured faculty.

There were lines of tightly spaced text surrounding multiple detailed diagrams of your home planet, from which you could discern small titbits of information as Sam scrolled down to the relevant paragraph. Every military base, oil refinery, political building, settlement, town and city had been mapped, with the exact coordinates and even terrain conditions listed by the side. It was disconcerting how much had been derived about Andorreia from supposedly cursory scans.

“OK, this is it – ‘First Order Re-Administration Process’” All eyes fell onto the paragraph to which Sam held out a pale finger. At first your trepidation caused the words to swim before you, your usual skim-reading method taking you leaps too far ahead, but you forced yourself to take a deep breath and read slowly a line at a time.

_Authority in Andorreia wished to negotiate… unwilling to resist forcefully…_ The words began to swim, heartbeat raised.

_Assets on planet too valuable to risk war… military forces insubstantial… members of the Senate agreed to step down. Situation resolved non-violently._

The last sentence seemed to echo around the collective consciousness of all who read it. The text seemed to indicate that the situation was deeper than what you had first thought, at least at face value. It took a minute for you to locate a coherent sentence amongst the reverberating confusion.

“So… does this mean… the Senators are still alive?”

Sam responded to your question first by stabbing a protein strip with vengeance using his fork.

“Huh. Maybe, maybe not. You’ve seen how much propaganda these guys have. This ‘peaceful’ stuff could be all part of the act. _Another victory for the First Order_.” Sam mimicked the cold tone of the propaganda videos that had been cemented into your mind – they were played twice a day on the huge screens dotted around the base, under the guise of ‘morale raising’. All of you dared not voice any critical opinion, though; the psytechs who ‘conditioned’ defectors were far too creepy to risk it. Maria looked up from her wheat slice.

“It depends if this file is accessible to the average soldier. Ignorance is key to keeping the Stormtroopers in check, but withholding truth from the higher ranks would be illogical.” Both made valid points, but the new information if anything made the situation more perplexing and frustrating. You fought the urge to bang your head on the table, this new burden added to the pile of worries that already threatened to snap your metaphorical back. You would have given anything to just have some time during the day to think, collect yourself a little, but no such luck; you noticed a small group of troopers moving towards the table at which you and your team sat. You cursed, realising the designated time you had for eating must be up. Whenever somebody went overtime at the canteen, someone would always move over and remove your tray. The others had evidently noticed, too; Sam shut his datapad screen down in a hurry, Maria got to her feet to take her tray, and several others (yourself included) began hastily shoving any uneaten food into their mouths or lab coat pockets, although the only food really worth saving was the protein slices for the energy they contained. With a bewildered train of thought and pockets slightly damp with remnants of breakfast, you left the canteen to begin your day’s work.

1400 hours was your first ‘break’ of sorts, although you were still technically seen as working. Here an hour’s slot was allocated so you, as head scientist, could better your practical understanding of the technology on the base. In practice, this meant you were given free reign of the library and engineering reports within, provided you actually spent the time learning rather than canoodling around in the history section. Stormtroopers were allocated at the entrances to make sure you stayed put, but other than that you were on your own aside from other library users and the musty scent of book preservation fluid. This hour had become your hour of sanctuary, an hour to sit quietly, away from the noise, officials to whom you had to salute and the rigid timings that plagued your day, and simply read and enjoy the books. However, today your hour of enjoyment had become a chore.

You were restless, irritated – a problem had caught your attention. The focus of your interest was set firmly upon the huge pupil of the Starkiller base, a weapon that used dark energy, your self-proclaimed speciality.

The weapon itself looked to be enthrallingly powerful, with so much surplus energy that it could open up a wormhole to allow the blast to travel faster to its target. The thought of such audacious destruction filled you with both haunting fear, disgust and insatiable curiosity. But your careful analysis of the scans, reports and simulated activations had lead you to an anomaly. There was a vent with which the huge weapon released unnecessary heat, which computer systems showed was covered by an expansive artificial shielding device for the entirety of the charging and firing of the weapon. However, when simulations were run, despite the data speaking otherwise, the shield went down – allowing you to perform a virtual overload of the tiny simulated vent, causing the projection of the Starkiller base to explode with vigour. This was equal parts worrying and fascinating.

But here you were, stuck at a desk in a library, not able to practically investigate it from the confines of books and data projections. Just down the hall, teasingly close, lay the transformer room for the weapon that you were certain held the key to this mystery. Pacing the shelves was doing absolutely nothing in the way of bringing you to a closer understanding of the technology at hand – you had to get out there, see things for yourself in order to discern what was really going on. So with datapad in hand as your shield, you set out on your quest.

The troopers stationed at the door may have been low ranking, possibly the most basic fighting lackeys the First Order possessed, but that didn’t mean they weren’t unhappy with the mundane task they had been given. As you approached the two either side of the door, you noticed that one was shifting restlessly from foot to foot while the other leant against the wall, still apart from breathing, head drooping over his chest ever so slightly. You held back a laugh when you realised that they had fallen asleep. The trooper who was still conscious in the stuffy warmth of the library straightened as he noticed you were headed towards the door.

“Ma’am, you can’t leave until 1500 hours. Return to your post.”

“I need the toilet.” You stared pointedly at the eye holes in the helmet of the trooper, wondering if you could stare them down. Feeling more confident, you stepped forwards again.

“You’re not authorised-”

“Do you want me to pee myself of should I go down the back of one of the shelves?” the trooper regarded you in silence, hopefully weighing up the pros as higher than the cons of letting you use the bathroom. You could almost hear the cogs turning as your immaturely phrased request was considered.

“Fine.” The trooper stepped back, unsure whether they had just made the right decision. Your feet compelled you quickly out of the library.

Success! Freedom was yours for the taking! The short, brisk steps that carried you down the corridor elongated as you rounded out of sight of the library, urging your body into a sprint towards the transformer room. It was only a matter of time before the troopers would send someone to fetch you back; you estimated about ten minutes could be spared for your investigation.          

The transformer room was less of a room and more of a chamber; the walls towered up to a good twenty metres above your craned head, metal almost completely obscured by the swathes of wires and cables that met the huge electromagnetic coil running the length of the space. Its circumference came well up to nearly scraping the ceiling, with more coils than you could count in a decade wrapped in a concentric and ordered manner. Although if the masses of wires that converged onto the electromagnet were not kept tidy then you were certain you’d be drowning in cable coverings and connectors.

The purpose of this tech was simple; it ‘stepped up’ the voltage of the power sent through it so the dark matter manipulation machinery could begin its work to form a blast from the enormous iris of the Starkiller base – and it was here, you were assured, where the problem lay. One hand was placed to feel along the coil for any anomaly, and your eyes raked over the loops to aid your senses in your search. It must be here, somewhere, hiding as you made your slow orbit of the transformer room.

And suddenly you spotted it. Where the thick cable met with the coils of the enormous transformer, a couple of the plastic casings had melted together, causing three of the metal lengths within to poke out, crossing over each other. “Aha!” You couldn’t help but make the exclamation aloud, pleased with your quick detective work. Busy congratulating yourself, you failed to notice the second set of footsteps that had joined your own in the chamber.

“Is there any particular reason why you are standing in the middle of this transformer room, Doctor?”

The calculated baritone of the General bounced around the room, widening your eyes and causing your hand to freeze over the melded wiring. In the span of one sentence, his carefully chosen words portrayed the exact extent of his knowledge of your non-compliance to the rules – did absolutely nothing escape this man? He knew.

Caught.

ou whirled around to meet the piercing eyes of General Hux, standing tall and commanding, causing you to gulp in fright. It was anyone’s guess how long he had stood, observing your little search, the thought of him watching your ministrations filling you with a chaste embarrassment. The cold quality his voice held made you feel like a child that had been caught stealing cookies. It was still slightly bewildering how a singular worker out of thousands upon thousands of others could be so quickly reprimanded after only ten minutes of defiance.

Breaking the silence took all your courage, so none could be spared to omit the quiver of fear that mingled with guilt from your voice.

“S-sir, I noticed an anomaly-” a gloved hand is held up, silencing you instantly.  

“My datapad informs me that you should currently be occupied within the confines of the library.” At this, you really couldn’t help but avert your gaze like a guilty adolescent. He was going to drag this out, sadistically; you could tell by the hint of a smirk that played along his lips, contrasting the usual expression he held of cold indifference.

“I would not expect this level of insubordination from a scientist, much less one of considerable intelligence such as yourself.”

His words seemed to herald an imminent run-in with a psytech and your gaze flicks up to meet with his own. The back of your mind formed a sarcastic comment regarding the General’s own intelligence, but common sense batted it away. This was not a man to be trifled with.

Within you, an indignant feeling rose from the pit of your stomach. Would you not be working to the best of your abilities if you could examine situations practically? You were no engineer, but hypothetical situations must be examined at least with a basic knowledge of the hardware at hand. Something about the way you were expected to work exactly how the First Order wished angered you out of your fearful silence.

“Sir, with all due respect, I cannot work on this ship purely on a theoretical basis. My simulations and statistical results were not consistent, so I attempted to resolve the issue by inspecting the physical hardware.” Your voice grew in confidence, stepping over to the man with the stutter fading. “This weaponry appears to be the most powerful offensive asset the First Order possesses. The logical conclusion to draw was that the issue required my undivided attention, seeing as a fault could prove catastrophic to the entire organisation.”

The General’s face somehow took on an even more severe expression. The sheer audacity of what you just said seemed to crush your brief confidence, flinging you back down into the pit of fear you had dwelled in before your bold insolence. You began to inadvertently step backwards from his intense stare, but the distance between the two of you was quickly closed by his sharp strides to face you. He was taller, forcing you to look up from seemingly beneath him as his torso neared your own. Your heart squeezed, eyes returning to the floor, pulse pounding in your ears – you’ve done it now – are you going to be demoted? Imprisoned? _Executed?_ You braced for his words in the painful quiet, so tense that your terse breaths mingling together with his own measured breathing were like a crashing headwind. Silence.

“Report to my division at 0700 tomorrow.” Your wince quickly turns to a look of shock. Were you not going to be immediately and harshly chastised? Severity was what you had come to expect from the First Order, after all. Questions quickly gave way to a hesitant acceptance. You were lucky your head wasn’t being severed from your body as you spoke.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Dismissed.”

As you made to leave the room, no doubt being forced to sidestep the General’s form as a sign of defeat, you wondered if you had even been more embarrassed in your life. The answer came a few seconds later.

Your feet hooked themselves over one another, pulling you off-balance, setting you on an arc towards the metal floor by the side of General Hux’s boot. Time seemed to slow, although whether this was due to adrenaline or mortification you couldn’t tell. Mouth forming a little surprised ‘O’, eyes wide, your arms barely knew where to position themselves as your trajectory took you forward to brush the side of the General’s shirt.

An arm snaked around your waist, causing you to fold down the middle but stopping your forehead inches from the metal floor. It took a few seconds to register what just happened.

You were bent forwards over the General’s arm, feet raised slightly off the floor and head upside down. The General had caught you on his right arm, but to your further mortification his eyes were not tracking you or focused on your behind raised ludicrously above your head – when you had tripped, the lone strip of protein sitting forgotten in your pocket had taken the opportunity to fly forwards and land in front of you. You scrambled off General Hux’s arm, face a deep shade of red, avoiding eye contact as your ears began to burn. His face held a quality you couldn’t place, one eyebrow raised, but you couldn’t bear to hold eye contact for more than a second before grabbing the protein strip and fleeing down the corridor.

You consoled yourself on the way down to the control room by shoving the offending protein strip into your mouth. It tasted a little of metal, but it did the job to muffle any screams of fear mingling with embarrassment that threatened to escape your throat. _I got caught disobeying a direct order, argued with the General then dropped a slice of meat out of my pocket. Oh my suns. I am a world-class failure. I’m going to die at the hands of my own breakfast._

You struggled naively to bring your thoughts back down to your results over in the control bay you were headed to. Despite the methodical thinking you applied to the clutter in your mind, your emotions still bayed after you. Irritation rose like bile in your throat; it was directed at yourself more than anything else. _What an idiot._ The tumbling thoughts you had only served to heighten how cross you were, and by the time you neared the relevant room, you were absolutely seething; when you were paused in your tracks by two Stormtroopers, you were less than willing to listen to why they had halted you in your tracks.

“Ma’am, I wouldn’t go in there right now. Commander Ren is back and he’s… not happy.”

A frown saturated your face with yet more irascibility. Commander who? In spite of your unfamiliarity with First Order higher-ups beside the General, his name had never even come to you in passing.

“So what? I need my results.”

“But Commander Ren can get very, uhh- hey, wait!”

You made to go past them with a flippant attitude, deciding whoever this Commander was could deal with a scientist in his proximity. Neither moved to stop you but both shouted a warning in your wake.

“Stop! Commander Ren is-”

“Don’t bother, man. It’s her loss.”

Your loss? Whoever this high-up boss man was, surely you couldn’t be faulted for picking up your report on time. A sulky superior was never a good thing, but frankly you’d had enough for one day and you wanted. Those. Results. _Commander Ren can suck it._

Your boots clumped more noisily along the floor, the sound bouncing off the walls as your footfalls became weighted with resentment. The entrance to the computer bay was in your sights; so blinded with anger was your psyche that you failed to notice the scent of burning and the rising heat around the area. Warning signs unread and unheeded, you rounded the corner to face the computer bay. What you saw, however, was more than enough to bring you to your senses.

Had your head been less clear, or if your acute observational skills been dulled, you may have described the form inside the room as that of a phantom. Ragged robes veiled a tall figure, arms bandaged and hand clutching an unstable red blade that radiated plasmatic heat, smaller vents out the side releasing excess energy from the unsteady hilt. A lightsabre. A face protruded from the hood, hidden behind a metallic mask. It was unlike the clean, white helmets that Stormtroopers wore; this mask was dark, with metallic strips radiating from the eye holes, and a ventilator cut into the bottom. Howls of pure fury emanated from behind the mask, distorted by the electronics within, in chorus with the sputter of severed wiring. Commander Ren was no Phantom; no, his merciless swings tainted with rage marked him out as a warrior.

You realised with a stab of anger that the target for his revenge over whatever ailed him was y _our computers_. This man, unable to contain himself like a moody teenager, had turned upon your results to feel his wrath. Any fear you had dissolved into a rage to match the howling man before you; it was your turn to give a shriek of frustration as the spluttering blade bit into your precious hardware system. The man appeared to hear the noise over the cascade of sparks and metallic groans, stopping just long enough to draw attention away from his final swing at the next line of flickering screens. A hand shot out, fretted mind too blinded with anger to consider the ineffectiveness of the pointless action, as if willing the vengeful arc to halt in its tracks – and yet, unaccountably, it did. A few inches before contact was made between the red energy and the bluish pixels of the computer, the arm came to a complete stop. It shivered slightly, and the anger cleared to make way for confusion. Had your angry yells actually quelled his tantrum? And then you felt it.

A shiver travelled up your arm to your very core, an ethereal vibration that moved something deep within your consciousness you didn’t know you had. The outstretched palm which you wielded at Ren felt the echoing weight of his own arm, as if you had physically leant out to stop its destructive path, but your tangled mind instead perceived a deep, humming vibration housed in your thought processes. Something flowed between the two of you, a phantom limb that twisted and flexed to your will, tendrils of control leaking from your fingertips. You hadn’t leant out to physically stop him. You were still standing at the entrance to the control bay. Yet somehow, inexplicably, _you_ had stopped the Commander’s arm.

As the masked head turned slowly to look at you, you felt your blood run icy cold.


End file.
